


This Other World

by chartreuseocean



Category: His Dark Materials (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Angst, Introspection, dust - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:15:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27938717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuseocean/pseuds/chartreuseocean
Summary: In which Mrs. Coulter spends more time in Mary's Oxford, and sees her own world in a new light. Inspired by the TV series. Mostly Mrs. Coulter's PoV
Relationships: Lyra Belacqua & Marisa Coulter, Mary Malone & Mrs Coulter
Comments: 20
Kudos: 71





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter is set after the events of 2.5. Spoilers if you haven't seen that episode.

_Free._

The concept soars in her mind for just the briefest of moments, but she is already angry at the momentary weakness.

The first thing that comes to her mind is what this world must be missing, in order for the Malone woman to have a doctorate, in order for a mother and child to be out in the open on a cloudy pavement.

An obvious difference is the lack of daemons, what Boreal calls immorality. She has only met the one person from this world, and a woman at that, but Malone bore very little resemblance to the nurses at Bolvanger whose demons had been severed. If anything the scholar was more intelligent than most people of her world, even without a daemon…

A heretic thought came to her, but she quickly exercised unrelenting self-control before the idea could blossom. _No, that is impossible._

She simply settles on musing whether she would be more formidable, more intelligent, without that faithless screeching soul of hers, who is nothing like her really, and only exhibits the most ridiculous behaviour that dents her impeccability.

She consoles herself that there must be unspeakable depravity, somewhere in this world, the most extreme blasphemies, that she has yet to discover. Not everywhere can be curiosity and affection here. It is Oxford after all. It’s more likely that scholastic sanctuary in this world extends beyond the colleges, and what she has witnessed today was naivety, the people who have no idea of reality.

_But the daemons…_ The idea that was planted threatened to rise and swirl, and she quickly poured herself another glass of whiskey. Three, even four, fingers this time. The Malone woman was wrong about the fundamental thing: Dust may be a scientific discovery, but it means nothing without theology. _She is quite an idiot, you see,_ she sings to herself.

Indeed, even she admitted that Lyra knew far more than she does, a proper scholar and doctor.The Marisa Coulter of any world is still far more knowledgeable. She believes that with utter certainty. In fact she can’t think of anyone who could match wits at all. _Ah, Lyra, if you want to learn, you’d have to come to your mother._

At this, she hardens, that treacherous brow furrowing and giving her away, if only there was someone to see it. Lyra is not stupid, far from it. Obstinate, infuriating, impertinent and arrogant. All of those things and more, on this point she would agree with Boreal heartily, but no, Lyra is never stupid. And yet she does not want to learn from the best. _She think I would trick her, to confuse the truth._ She admits that she had, but it was to protect her. Can’t Lyra see that? Can’t Lyra see that she means well, that she’s tried beyond her means?

She finds there’s no whiskey left, and her brain is hazy. She’s immensely glad that the heels were dispensed with, or she’d be teetering about now, knocking down all those precious trinkets that Boreal loves so much, little clay men in his own image.

At least she caught a glimpse of Lyra today, even though her body aches, in all the way she can count, from their little encounter. She finds, wearily and with resignation, for it had become all too familiar, that it was the pressure in her head, behind her eyes, that bothered her the most. The physical wounds were just that, physical. It only took her a short while to snap out of it, even while her daemon was being flung around like a rag doll. Her mother would be proud, after all it was nothing compared to…

The aeronaut sprung up unceremoniously in her consciousness. He had meant it, that no amount of torture could break her, but now she wonders if he meant only the kind that involves breaking bones. For something inside her felt close to breaking today, and try as she might to find this disobedient pillar and ram a nail in to anchor it down, every time she got close, it would turn a corner into the shadows.

She can’t help but think what Lyra thought of seeing her today. _Does she hate me, even more than she does? Does she regret what she did to me? Is she triumphant that the tables have turned?_ But most of all, she dreads the most likely turn of events. That Lyra thought nothing of it all, that to her it was only necessity, to retrieve the alethiometer. That seeing her was a distraction that hurt the boy.

Her head is pounding now, and her pulse running. This was unlike her, ever, to ponder so many sinful things in one day. She needs to remind herself, to stay the true course of enlightenment. Mothers, daughters, scholars, and most of all, weakness, have no place in attaining ultimate salvation.

She was too kind to the Malone woman today, too much of a supplicant. Now that Lyra is gone, she knows it will be a long while before she sees her again. What she must do now, is wrench out of that woman what Lyra knows, and what she told her, and what she might do next. What a pity she can’t bring some useful people who could be so very persuasive, to drag the truth from unwilling lips. She will have to play the experimental theologian again, this time even endure the tea from horribly peasant cups.

And perhaps, just perhaps, the scholar could tell her more about Dust.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All her curious morning tendrils retreat, and she is wound the right way again, just like clockwork.

She wakes to the obscene noise of Boreal’s electric car. What an arrogant, serpent-like man he is. _So very fitting,_ she mulls. _So like him to rush off “making a name for himself” while she sleeps in the guest room that faces the street._

Her head pounds mercilessly. She can’t remember the last time she was so overtaken by whiskey that she failed to wake before the morning light to pry into her host’s affairs. Although she doubts she would’ve found much, if anything. Boreal may be a narcissistic show-off, but he is not careless. After all he has hidden his other life here from the Magisterium, though she _knows,_ without a droplet of uncertainty, that if he’s brought her here, there must’ve been others before.

_Witches._ Judging by his face when she mentioned them, he has almost certainly fallen for one, and bedded as many as he could’ve. _What is with the men who fall into my entanglements? Why do they all go running to witches the moment I glance away?_

With great effort, she pulls herself into an upright position. Oz is lying on his side, eyes pitiful, motionless. She gives him a glare, as much as she can muster in her state, and slides ungracefully to her feet.

Her reflection shocks her. Her eyes are bloodshot, hair completely unraveled from the neatly pinned bun, lipstick smudged in the left hand corner. In short, she looks maniacal. The sudden urge to laugh overtakes her, and her mouth pulls up the side of her face cruelly. And then she stops. _I’m crazy, cr-ay-zy._

She slaps her right cheek sharply, with the full force that she can summon, and feels the familiar sting before her eyes record the movement in the mirror. _Pull yourself together. The world is at stake. My work is at stake. My life’s work._ All her curious morning tendrils retreat, and she is wound the right way again, just like clockwork.

She cleans her face, tames her traitorous hair, and decides against putting it up again. Seeing the Malone woman with her unruly frizz has made her realise, perhaps her hair down, in soft curls, works as persuasively here as it does on the pious men of the Magisterium.

She wants to appear, what’s the word, _approachable. Friendly._ The words are foreign in the mind, and even stranger on the tip of her tongue. _Only a woman would respond to such laughable characteristics._ But she was nothing if not observant, and if it took a white floral shirt and navy pants to put the Malone woman at ease, so be it.

_Woman to woman,_ she smirks. If the severe attire yesterday had intimidated her, today’s look would crumble her walls. _And that is exactly how the game is played. With men it’s the other way around. Once they desire you and succumb to it, no display of power on my part can ever drive them away, can it?_ It was a triumphant thought, and she feels decidedly better, armed, for the excursion ahead.

She tucks her shirt in neatly, and slips on some relatively sensible heels that her mother abhorred. Oz is guarding the door, and she knows, with a groan of annoyance, that she won’t get away with leaving him again. _Pity he’s not a snake._ He’s a beautiful, mesmerizing creature trailing behind her, but this daemonless world is proving to be an endless nuisance.

He purrs, and she gives him a withering look that brings men to their knees. _I will NOT carry you around, in any vessel. My hands are always free, and that is a rule I never break._ He, in turn, leans more firmly on the door. _Fine, you can follow me, but stay hidden. How you do that is your problem, and you know I care nothing of what happens, as long as you don’t get flattened by one of those monstrous electrical machines._ Oz moves away in acceptance. He has seen the many bushes in this Oxford, and brambles are never an obstacle. After all, the sun is out in full force, and anyone who sees him in this world would imagine he was just a trick of the golden light.

She grasps the handle firmly, and descends the tiny staircase of the supposedly magnificent house, her back ramrod straight. She brushes her curls behind her ears, settles them comfortably, and greets the morning sun. The street is quiet. There is no one at this hour, and the only sound is the jangling of Boreal’s keys in her pocket as she ventures into the strange world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What did you think?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a dog, a grey stringy thing that looks amusingly like a mop.

She turns a myriad of corners until the neat white rows of “mansions”, as Boreal calls them, fade from view, replaced by a quaint looking street with glass fronted shops. A dozen cars are already lined up, parked, she presumes, out in the open. She shields her eyes from the glaring sun, and finds, to her immense surprise, that the shops were filled. Not with clothes and crisp frocks, but with people, sitting around little round tables.

_How strange, this ritual they have, for something as common as coffee._ A gnawing voice in the back of her mind conjures up every mocking comment about coffee’s frivolity, but for once she was able to tamp it down. It would do no good to rail against every little thing these people do. She must save stamina for their blasphemous ways. And she would admit, grudgingly, that the coffee Boreal brought her was _wholly acceptable._

Still, her disdain for crowds, and most of all, physical touching, required that she choose a different shop. A little way down the opposite side of the street, she spots one that is empty, only a lonely, ugly looking boy behind the counter, as forlorn as the Bolvanger children. _What a fate I saved them from,_ she muses. _Experimental subjects are so much more worthy than coffee makers._ With that wonderful thought, she pushes firmly on the door and steps inside.

“Good morning!” the boy greets cheerfully, glancing up from his… rectangular gadget that was emitting a head-splitting tinker.

She jumps, her heart giving a horrible lurch, at the gall of this boy. _How dare he address me that way. How dare he address me at all. How dare he give no due to the obvious difference in standing that I occupy._ She stalks up to the counter, and looks up slowly, with unmatched ferocity that calls for a thousand apologies, but his attention is already refocused on the gadget.

She sighs, drums her nails methodically on the wood. “One coffee,” she announces. He glances up quizzically, brow furrowed, head tilted.

“Black coffee, ma’am?”

The obvious retort already sprung into her mind. _What do you think, clever boy?_ But she suppresses it with an imperceptible shake of her head. “With milk. And a little. Bit. Of. Sugar.” Every word comes out brittle, an unconscious habit of her profound irritation. It’s not a habit she’s inclined to correct, given the excellent results it yields.

“Alright ma’am. That’s three pounds sixty.” She holds out the coins grasped perilously between the index and her thumb, and drops them carelessly into his outstretched palm. He puts them away with a clang of the register and turns to the machine behind without a word.

She selects a little table overlooking the street, in the shade, and perches daintily on the edge of the wooden chair, legs crossed. Her eyes wander. The street was beginning to fill, slowly, with people. There are the men in suits. _Scholars,_ she immediately thinks. Women in dresses and skirts. _Wives, stupid and ignorant._ Women in blazers and pants, much as she was dressed. _Also_ s _cholars,_ she reminds herself, with a hint of bitterness. _If I was a scholar, I would dress in college robes wherever I go, then everyone would listen to me._ Ah, the power she would wield, if only she could.

The coffee arrives by her elbow without fanfare, jerking her out of her musings. A sip of it confirms her suspicion. _These people do have a knack for coffee making, but what an unintelligent talent that is._ She sits quietly for a few minutes, reveling in the rare silence that seems to elude this world. The street was busy now, people on both sides of the street wandering at their own paces, some rushing past others in a grand hurry. _To attend very interesting Magisterium meetings,_ she comments to herself sarcastically. And then…

She spies a daemon, no, a _pet_ , as Boreal explained to her as if she was a pathetic child. It’s a dog, a grey stringy thing that looks amusingly like a mop. A man in what she can only identify as sleeping clothes running alongside it, and in seconds, they had already disappeared around a corner. She wonders if pets are like daemons, if they ever evolve into one. But no, she thinks, _morality can never be acquired. It is a gift, from the highest, most divine being._ Surely it means, that God had meant for this world to be beneath hers. Perhaps this world was an experiment, before the creation technique was perfected.

The thought brings a smile to her lips. She was truly following in righteous footsteps. She sips the last of her coffee with care, and blots her lips. The boy is nowhere to be seen. She stands with minimal disturbance, the result of many years of practice, and smooths her clothes, forgetting momentarily that she was not in a temperamental skirt.

She pads quietly to the door, pulling gently. Across the street, near a perfectly rounded bush, she glimpses a golden glint. Ah, that’s where Oz has been hiding. Yet when she looks closer, again, the glint was gone. Maybe it was a trick of the light.

Yes, it was probably just a trick of the light.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She supposes it is this world’s manifestation of vanity, although why they chose such a horrid thing is beyond her comprehension

The first thing she does is reserve a room at a dilapidated old thing that advertises itself as “hotel”. She will need to find a place _more suitable to her tastes_ if she is to stay longer than one night, but anything is better than Boreal’s so-called hospitality. The woman at the front desk gave nary a glance, and the keys to a room are now jangling with the rest of Boreal’s in her front pocket. _He would loathe that,_ she snarks. There is no better pastime than goading that man.

As she approaches the colleges, along the same road she took yesterday, she finds many more students, she presumes, all cycling in the same general direction. All of them had backpacks weighed down by dense textbooks, and, she observes in shock, they were all dressed similarly. A sweater, the occasional scarf on a sunny but crisp autumn day, and those stiff blue trousers that are clearly a fad, and must be impossible to walk in. She supposes it is this world’s manifestation of vanity, although why they chose such a horrid thing is beyond her comprehension.

As they whizzed passed her on the road, she stops to notice the female students. There was virtually nothing to distinguish them from the men, except for facial features and sometimes, long hair tied back in one most undistinguished bunch. Hardly anyone had bothered to make themselves presentable, not a flash of lipstick or perfectly coiffed eyebrow to be seen. They all looked as if they had tumbled out of bed and put on last week’s clothes in five minutes.

She hasn’t done that since… well, ever. It always takes a long while to position her hair around her face, framing it perfectly for maximal effect, and to shadow her eyes so they are beady and unrelenting emerging into the light. How much easier it would be if she didn’t have to, but _these stupid women have no idea, what they must face. Your face is where power lies, and it would be your fault entirely if you did not grasp as much power as you could._

She takes care to sidestep the uneven pavement, passing the large green expanse that must mark the border of this end of the colleges. The river glistens from the other side of the park, flowing with idyllic tranquility, like most of this Oxford, everything soft and peaceful. A large circular field was a little way away. _That must be where airships land. I see, no important guests this time of year. Pity._

A part of her was yearning for a combative standoff, with the Magisterium ambassadors of this place. What does a Mrs Coulter look like here? Are they as immaculately presented as she is, flanked by abiding guards who obey every whim? Does a name carry as much weight, strike as much fear as hers does?

She retreats internally at this. It did not seem that _Dr_ Malone was anyone of importance, and yet she was already a full-fledged scholar, seemingly with years of research and publications in the making. She had an office, but it was cluttered. Certainly no guards or even assistants to speak of. She had carried her own books, even a lanyard around her neck. Mary Malone. _So nobody even recognises her._

She hadn’t considered this at all, in the drama of yesterday, that perhaps scholars are just faces in the crowd, that they wouldn’t be immediately identifiable. That even the head of a department would only have a little office facing another.

She shakes her head and turns a corner. _Dark matter._ She wonders where the name came from, if these people have no idea of the properties of Dust, and what it means. If Mary Malone was not aware of the repulsion and attraction of Dust to adults, then what are her experiments on? She couldn’t imagine Malone would have a facility anywhere in the vicinity of Oxford, or indeed anywhere else, to house children. Did she even know? What Dust really is?

_One can’t expect much of these people,_ she reminds herself. _They must not be overindulged._

St John’s College loomed as she approached. There were students chatting eagerly in the courtyard, making wild and obscene gestures, some glued to the same gadgets as the coffee boy. It must be a _marvelous_ invention, to have so enamored Boreal. She wonders what the Magisterium of this world thinks of it.

She finally enters the building, turning down the familiar hallway that houses Malone’s office. It is 9am exactly. She smiles at that, _always eminently punctual._ She knocks once, twice, softly with a single knuckle, underneath the gold letters of “Dr Mary Malone, Head of Physical Cosmology”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments! Many of you asked if she will be meeting Mary. I based this story on after 2.5, TV canon if you will, presumably Mary has already gone to other worlds. I doubt they'll meet again in the show, but their scene was amazing!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His head is tilting backwards now, away from hers, until he showed a double chin, as if she was a menacing beetle rearing at his face. 

No answer came, and she nudged the door open slowly, peering in, and then wider. There were still the myriad of cardboard boxes on the floor, much as yesterday, but the desk was empty. The many files and books and pens that had rendered the desk impossible to navigate were gone. Even the little tree was gone. Some of the shelves looked rather emptier than they had been.

“Who are you?” A loud, shrill voice of a man came before she could step foot into the office.

She turns to face him, a very average looking man with a tie done sloppily, slanting to the right, slightly shorter than was acceptable to her eye. He looked annoyed, as all men do.

She composes her face, smooths the tense lines of the corners of her mouth, and smiles beguilingly. “I am looking for Dr. Malone. I’m afraid our conversation was cut short yesterday. You wouldn’t be able to point me in the right direction, would you?”

She comes closer to him with every word, until she knows he can see every curled lash, every shallow breath.

“Err… she left, I think,” he replies, looking at her as one might regard an unimpressive specimen. “She’s taking some leave for the time being. She’s had so much leave accumulated over the years and been talking about it forever. I’m not really surprised. Erm, was she expecting you?”

His head is tilting backwards now, away from hers, until he showed a double chin, as if she was a menacing beetle rearing at his face.

“Ah, I see,” she intones lightly, touching her lips soundlessly. “It must’ve been a misunderstanding. It’s just that I’m doing some research myself, on dark matter, you see, and I was hoping to obtain some input.” Her eyes sparkle suddenly, and she gives an earnest look of surprise. “Oh! You wouldn’t be able to help me would you? Are you a very knowledgeable professor of cosmology too?”

He purses his lips, glancing at her with every disinterest. “Afraid not. Mary’s really the only one here who works on dark matter, doesn’t help that she hasn’t taken on students in a long while. I teach condensed matter. As a matter of fact, I’m late to my lecture.” He taps his wristwatch twice and glances at the hands. “Good day to you, I hope you have better luck elsewhere.” And then he was gone amidst the rushing line of people.

She lets out a sign of irritation. _Such prodigious timing. To take leave, now of all times. Such dedication to her work._ She imagines if she were a scholar, with classes to teach and research to complete, she would never leave the college. She would be prolific in presenting papers to the council, and the Magisterium would bow to her. Even the cardinals would shrink in their stature whenever she walked past.

She supposes there is nothing to be done.. God knows where Malone has gone. If only she had a spy fly. Her best course of action now is probably to trawl through Malone’s papers before anyone could notice the disturbance. Perhaps she had written notes about her conversation with Lyra. She said she had learned a lot, so there must be documentation somewhere in this rubbish heap.

Glancing around carefully, she reenters the office. There are files on the floor under the desk, notebooks strewn around the drawers. And there is that computer. Boreal said a thing like that can store all the data in the world. Words too, not just numbers. She doesn’t suppose something like that can be taken and snuck away. Maybe she’ll have to return again.

Boreal also said a computer in this world can give you answers too, to almost anything you like, as long as one knows how to ask it. _It sounds quite like an alethiometer_ , she had replied, rolling her eyes, but he had immediately shifted closer to her, meeting her eyes intensely. _The difference is, anyone can use it. There is no meaning to divine. And that, my dear Marisa, is why the Magisterium here is so weak._

At that, she forces herself out of the trance. A machine like that must be wicked, must have a mind of its own that defies the arduous road of morality. But she can’t help but ponder, _what would I ask if I could ask anything?_ What had she always wanted to know, but can’t access in the reading room that is exclusive only to cardinals?

The feeling of power flooded her, and she basked in it. She could already imagine Father MacPhail’s reaction, when he realises with horror all the things that she knows. That would be a glorious day. And then she would leave him with a terrible temper, eyes bulging out of their little sockets, as she strides away. Gold. She would wear gold. Cardinals would tremble in their seats.

_No,_ she reprimands herself, and has to stop her overeager right hand from coming up to meet her cheek. _Save your foolish dreams for later, when Lyra is safely back in my grasp._

Instead, she picks up Mary Malone’s files, all perfectly manageable balanced on one arm, and departs the college. She takes a cursory glance once out in the open, and hums with satisfaction that she does not look out of the ordinary at all.

Heading up the road, back where she came from, it was quiet again. The pavements were deserted. Far ahead where the park is, she spies the familiar glimpse of gold. This time, she knows it’s Oz. He’s on a low branch of a tree, sitting expectantly, as if he knew she’d come back this way all along.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She will give them that. Some people here do have adequate brains.

As she comes up closer to the tree, he purrs seeing the bundle she’s carrying. He does have a point, for once. She needs somewhere to settle and peruse the files. Boreal’s house was out of the question, and she was not keen, in the slightest, to be surrounded by the drab walls of her commoner hotel. She supposes a coffee shop would do, but can guess that peace there would be short-lived. Come midday, any coffee shop would be filled to the brim with people, and cacophony.

Ah, the park. If she could find a little bench in the shade, away from the main paths, that would be perfect until the late, preferably very late, afternoon, when she has no choice but to face Boreal again. It was only polite, after all, to inform hi _m_ that she immensely enjoyed his generous hospitality, but she would be returning home to complete top-secret Magisterial assignments. His barely-suppressed jealousy would be a sight to behold.

With very little effort, she finds an old wooden bench, spots of sunlight drifting through gaps of the great oak foliage. She puts down the papers with a sigh, and stretches her arms, shaking loose the tendons that were so unused to carrying things, to doing anything other than curl hair behind her ears, or pour tea.

She sits on the edge, leaning forwards, as she normally does. It would be deeply uncomfortable to be in this position all through the late morning and afternoon, she registers. Oz scoffs. _Well, yes, there’s no one around to see me, and even if they did they wouldn’t know who I am, but…_ For once she gives in. He’s right. For one day she will be taken back to the time when she was studying at a doctorate level, and no decorum is needed for that. Even her mother agreed back then.

She leans back, perches a thick file across her knees, and begins to read. Malone’s dissertations and analyses are dozens of pages each, and most of what she’s reading are only meant to be notes, preliminary drafts or simply disjointed ideas barely expanded on. Oz disappears into the tree above her, and after a few rustles, there is no sound but the gentle wind across the short grass.

After what only seemed to be a very short while, when the sun is high and no longer dappling the papers, she stumbles across MORALITY, written at a slant at the bottom of a page, underlined ferociously and circled with vigor. Just under it was DUST? COMPASS RELATED MEANING UNCLEAR.

Her heart begins to race. Malone told her Lyra can read the alethiometer, or compass as she called it, but she didn’t think that meant Lyra _showed_ her. _Lyra read it, in front of her. Impressed her._ That’s what she meant, when she said Lyra had an extraordinary grasp.

This was a new revelation. Very few people know anything about alethiometers. Even she only knows that Dust plays a part in reading it, and that it takes years of work and scholarship to know how to formulate the questions, and years more to interpret the answers correctly. She has seen one, briefly, that required a lot of persuasion and one packet of very expensive powder that was very difficult to obtain. It was just hands, as if on a pocket watch, and symbols not even she could decipher.

A feeling of dread washed over her. If Lyra can read it, and she couldn’t before, does that mean… she is starting to attract Dust? _Oh no, oh no. The boy._ She was panicking, breaths coming short and fast, and then long and in heaves against pressure in her chest. _No._ Lyra will not, will she? She is stubborn if nothing else, and clearly she has the boy under control. He even invited death after all, coming to Boreal’s house for the sake of the alethiometer.

She composes herself, hand on her sternum to steady her breathing. _It doesn’t mean anything, just because she can read it. All adults are surrounded by Dust, and nobody can read that thing. Lyra is special. Yes, that’s just it. She’s special._

Convinced her rationality was foolproof, she feels pride blossom at that thought. _Lyra is special. My daughter. Special. Just like I was. Just like me._ She had meant it entirely as a compliment, facing her yesterday, offering her the alethiometer like it meant nothing, as if she never meant to take it at all. She sees now, that she never did want to steal it, only that it was important to the Magisterium, to her standing in the council’s eyes. But now Father MacPhail is indebted to her, there is no need, after all, for it anymore. _If only I hadn’t tried to take it, if only. Lyra would still think of me as a wonderful godmother, full of presents and adventure._

But no, she mustn’t dwell on trivial happenings. What she must do is finish these papers and return them before anyone notices, especially if she is to seek another chance at interrogating Malone. Leaving abruptly before coffee was odd enough, she can’t risk being suspected of scholarly theft too. Malone would never tell her anything then.

The more she reads on the subject of dark matter, the more she sees intricacy of its physical aspect. This world might know very little about its intrinsic behaviour, but it must’ve been years into its study, for so many theories to be posited as to its detection and properties. _Not as pathetic as they are on the outside,_ she muses. She will give them that. Some people here do have adequate brains.

The occasional people were now starting to cross the field before her. It must be mid afternoon after lunch, and given the sunny day they were out for a stroll. Glancing at the completed stack on her left, she supposes she was already halfway through. Surely the rest can wait until tomorrow. She was famished, for what though she could not say, but she feels foolish enough, in her floral shirt, that there was an urgency to spring back to Boreal’s home and change before confronting him tonight.

A good day’s work nonetheless. She had found the perfect spot to complete reading tomorrow, and she notes to bring a bag to relieve her aching arms, but mostly to conceal the theft, just in case anyone happened across “Dr Mary Malone” in very large font across most of the papers.

She scrunches her face, loosens the muscles at her temples, overworked from years of meaningful glowering, and gathers the files once more. As she taps purposefully away, out of the park and heading toward the bland white rows of houses again, she sees Oz following her from across the street without a care in the world. The mid afternoon sun of autumn was yellow, verging on orange, and he blended right into it in this corner of unassuming Oxford.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It tastes rather vulgar, as if it couldn’t’ decide between sweet or sour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow 2.6 was eventful! With that, this fic is straying from TV canon. Spoilers in the rest of this A/N so don't read if you haven't seen it.
> 
> It was really interesting how there are 2 ways of avoiding the spectre kiss. Mary presumably has a childlike soul, and Mrs Coulter stops feeling.

As it turns out, Boreal did not really mean for her to stay long at all. Of course he put up a show of resistance at her leaving, for he still wanted to show her his company and all the glamorous things in his possession, but she could discern that he held a momentary grudge, however little, that his prized collection had been razed, and there was so much glass to be swept up. No fault of hers, of course, it was the boy that wreaked destruction, but he was sulking nonetheless.

She had gathered all the clothes that he bought for her, gave him a convincing peck on the cheek, for offering to escort her back to the doorway between their worlds, and returned to the little three-story building that was more inn than hotel. The floorboards gave an unbecoming creak, and the walls leaned in towards the middle, as if the room itself was alive and honing in on its prey.

She gave a little shiver. _It must be the wind_ , she reasons, and Oz quickly bolts the windows shut against the golden evening. She clears her throat and assesses the place, clasping her fingers together. It was only early, likely before dinnertime, but there was no hunger to be found. All she really wanted was a drink, and rest. The sooner she wrings information from Malone and leaves this world, the better. She felt growing discomfort about this strange world, which in most regards is so much like hers, and yet…

Her grasp and control on human psychology has atrophied since she arrived, she observes. Neither Malone nor the man seem to have been, for lack of a better word, entranced, as almost everyone are in her world. They were… curious, yes, but it was with a complete lack of diminished rationality. They were wary. Intrigued, but wary. These people were hard to pin down, but pin them down she must.

_Brace. Brace,_ she mutters to herself, and Oz is still, tensing his tail at the foot of the bed. She is well-accustomed to preparing for unpleasant happenings, but those were ones she could predict. The men of the Magisterium would put on a great display of disappointment when it came time for council reports, and her mother liked to pride herself on her unpredictable wrath, but she knew. She always knew, when it was coming. She was simply missing years of study on these daemonless people.

She was exasperated, and agitated, she knows. _Out of your element,_ the voice in her head taunts menacingly, _you know what happens when you bear less than what you’ve been given._ She uncorked the wine in the tiny cooler with brute strength, one loud pop that must ring across the hollow building. Her head tips back of its own accord, and the smooth liquid runs eagerly down her throat. It tastes rather vulgar, as if it couldn’t’ decide between sweet or sour. _Just like me,_ she giggles. That was the question on everyone’s lips that no one dared voice, fourteen years ago when she was rising from the ashes. _Who is Mrs Coulter?_

_I am Mrs Coulter. Mrs Coulter is me,_ she would always think coyly when she heard the whisperings. Mrs Coulter is her reputation, the power of her name, the tremble that she knows their deepest, darkest secrets, a weapon she wields mercilessly again and again. This particular bottle of wine was enjoying some wry camaraderie with her tonight, such privilege it has been awarded. Oz is on his back, looking unblinkingly at a spot of peeled paint on the ceiling, eyes hazy and unfocused.

She stumbles, limbs tangling, onto the lint-filled bedsheets, collapsing sideways in a heap. Her lips stick out into a pout, nose wrinkling childishly. She was in no mood for anything else, for once she has an evening to herself, and there was nothing she wants more than to lie here motionlessly until the lights went out.

One night of a quiet mind can’t hurt, can it? _‘Course not,_ her ears chirp, _can’t hurt at all._ She feels her eyes flutter close, lashes sticking to her face. She will look deranged tomorrow, but it’s not as though there’s anyone around to care. The people don’t care, the tree doesn’t care, and the proprietor downstairs thinks she’s Elizabeth. _Lizbeth, izbeth, iz._

The world stops spinning in the periphery of her vision, and her limbs are freezing slowly in place. _Just one night, just one night,_ comes the echo, and for the shortest piercing second, it sounds so familiar, terror breaking through that she thought she might jolt up in a cold sweat. But then it’s gone, and the torn fabric is swirled away.

It’s a race, always a race, to see if she or Oz goes to sleep first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter I've written so far, with the new episode. I'll see what my inspiration says. What do you think? Every episode provides a completely different story idea!

**Author's Note:**

> Should I continue? Suggestions welcome!
> 
> Comments and kudos are received with love!


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